


Bite Your Tongue

by RubyBelle



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Face Punching, M/M, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyBelle/pseuds/RubyBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunter's got a lot of anger pent up, and Dean doesn't know how to leave well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bite Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> set after hunter beats the shit outta dean on 2/29/16 raw. this doesnt really fit in with canon but like who cares

He should've taped his wrists up — that was all Hunter could think. Given himself some cushioning from the impact, his knuckles were already starting to ache, it had been way too long since he last put a beatdown on something spur of the moment like that. He hadn't expected for it to go that way, for him to roll up his sleeves and show Ambrose the true meaning of respect, even Stephanie had given him a long look after he stalked his way backstage. He was stupid, acting irrationally, letting something as small as a goddamn word get to him, and now his knuckles hurt.

Maybe he punches too hard. Running his knuckles under cold water helped, as did making sure his fists weren't clenched so tight he could feel his clipped nails biting into his skin. Being a wrestler wasn't so much forethought as it was quick recoveries, staples to the forehead and cotton balls shoved into orifices. He was used to the aftereffects of poor judgments by now, had a routine. As long as the skin wasn't broken, he could tend to it himself.

Stephanie hadn't wanted to stay the night, despite how much money they spent on the hotel room. She had wrestlers to tend to, pets to play with. Hunter understood, their tendencies were outstandingly similar, after all, but he still had a dead hope that she would sleep in his bed that night. He was wound up, shoulders tense, looking for some relief. Stephanie promised to text him later, but the silence in the meantime was maddening.

So he paces around the room, changes the TV channel, does pushups, squats, something to burn off this energy. He wasn't in the mood to jack off, didn't want to do it alone, and wasn't really able to get it up, anyway. This was _anger_ , seething, but he knew better than to call someone in when he was viable to do actual damage. Couldn't have someone limp out with a broken nose and black eye, especially when they hadn't done anything.

'Done anything' — someone had definitely done something. Dean Ambrose, his cocky grin and slouchy walk, Hunter had never hated him more. He was always a nuisance, unpredictable in the ring, obsessed with Seth, disrespectful, and just plain stupid. Hunter couldn't wait to make him bow to him, grab him by his dirty hair, and wail on him until Hunter's hand wraps were a bright red.

Hunter was out of breath, working too fast. He sat on the edge of his bed, puffing, wringing his hands. He wished he could call Ambrose to his room, any room, and leave a title belt shaped dent in his skull. Seth was always good in these situations, good at defusing Hunter when someone made a mistake. Sometimes Hunter just thought of him as a glorified punching bag.

He was still out, sometimes sending Hunter pictures of his rehabilitation, always cheerful, always responsive. Hunter glances at his phone, thinking. Would Seth answer? He's across the country, and Hunter wouldn't expect that much, but Facetime and picture messages were always an option. Hell, he'd settle for just a phone call. Anything to help.

Hunter's weighing the pros and cons of attempting a long-distance scene when he hears a knock at his door. He runs through the list of people who know his room number, assumes a knock this late at night probably meant something urgent, and set down his phone.

"C'moooon, I know you're in there."

He wasn't going to look through the peephole, but that lazy tone was just — there's no way. Hunter didn't give out his room number like that, how would Ambrose even know what hotel he was in? Besides all that, Hunter knew he was an idiot, but it's a special type of stupidity to egg on your boss not two hours after he beat the shit out of you on national television.

Sure enough, Ambrose's matted hair and raggedy jacket are outside, his attention focused down the hall, humming something out of tune. Heat takes over Hunter, and he unlocks the door before thinking about his actions.

"You better have a damn good reason to be knocking on my door at midnight, Ambrose," Hunter says, low and boiling, feeling his shoulders tense up again.

Dean's response is nothing Hunter wanted to see, but nothing he didn't expect. He grins, that dumb toothy grin, and takes his hands out of his pockets, spreading them out and wide, like he's expecting a hug, or revealing a surprise. "Hey, Hunter, buddy! Just wanted to talk to you, you busy right now?"

It's not just stupidity, Hunter thinks, this is _advanced_ stupidity. He pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering if there was some line in his contract about not committing murder. "How did you get my room number?"

Dean looks above and behind him, jumping a little and craning his neck. "Hey, Steph! You in there?" he shouts, completely oblivious of the time and place. Hunter holds his hand back.

"No, she's not," he definitely sounded exasperated, probably also angry. Dean's reaction was a blink, his lips still pursed, his body still bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Keep your fucking voice down, and get the hell out of here."

"Aw, hey, why don't you let me in, big man?" Dean's grin is _too_ natural, either everything is going according to his plan, or the only thing rattling around inside his head is an empty beer bottle. "C'mon, it'll be quick — I think. Just let me in."

Dean reaches for the doorknob, to push it open, but Hunter is a step quicker, and at least 40 pounds heavier. He presses his shoulder against the door, and Dean can't budge it out of place, which he definitely tries to do. He rattles the doorknob a little, making as much noise as possible.

"C'moooon," he says again, loud and whining. Hunter grits his teeth. "You don't want me to stay out here do ya? Where I can be —" Dean leans his head back and shouts, "AS LOUD AS I WANT?"

Infuriated, Hunter pulls the door open, grabs Dean by the collar, and yanks him inside. He was _not_ about to be scolded by some know-nothings in the middle of the night because a greasy idiot wanted to get his rocks off. The only downside was that he had invited Dean into his hotel room, but that could be rectified soon.

Hunter doesn't connect the chain lock, doesn't turn the deadbolt, although he definitely thinks about it. He doesn't want to trap Ambrose in here, give that idiot an excuse to stay around longer than he's welcome. Which, honestly, he was already doing.

Dean's right at home regardless, ignoring Hunter's ire, walking around the room, letting out a long, low whistle. "Nice place," he says carelessly, fiddling with the curtains. "Y'know, the rooms you got me and Ro in, they're nothin' like this. How much this cost a night? 800?"

Hunter ignores him. "What the fuck do you want," he says, huffing out the words, probably sounding like less than a threat than he actually was. He steps closer to Dean, feeling his bare skin tingle in the air, agitated. He felt underdressed, wearing only soft cotton sweatpants, nothing near his full suit and tie. There was no clear delineation of power between him and Ambrose, who looked like he hadn't changed since leaving the arena, jeans and leather jacket all.

Dean shrugged and sat on the bed, leaning back onto his hands, crossing his legs casually. "Hey, look, calm down, man," he says, grinning again. "I just wanted to ask you a question. I'm bein' serious." He raises his hands at the last sentence, palms forward, as if to show there were nothing up his sleeves.

"Don't sit on my bed," Hunter snapped. He didn't want to take Dean seriously, didn't want to continue this farce. He was going way too far, and all Hunter could think of was the memory of his fists smashing against his skull.

"Look, uh..." Dean's face is an act, pretending to be somber and serious, but Hunter knows how to tell when people lie to his face. He knots his hands in lap, like a bad imitation of what he thought a therapist was. "Do you need someone to talk to?"

Hunter shakes his head. "What?"

"If your heart's not into protectin' that belt, it's fine, man," he continues, and he can't hold back his grin anymore, taunting. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and Hunter thinks that he wants to cut it off.

Hunter steps forward, one hand outstretched, reasoning, but the other balled into a tight fist at his side, knuckles aching again. "Ambrose, I swear to God — "

"You broke Roman's _nose_ , man, that scene was like a bloodbath," Dean says, cutting Hunter off. He's enjoying this, smiling and watching, Hunter can't tell if he's thinking about what he'll say next, or if he's just riding the wave of insanity. Dean shrugs, as if he can't help it. "But, y'know, I guess you just didn't have it in you to do the same to me. It's alright if you're gettin' soft, old man. Some guys, they can't get it up two times in a row like that."

Hunter _knows_ there's definitely something in his contract about not intentionally causing unjust harm to his subordinates, but it's not in his mind when he stomps over to Dean and punches him square in the face. Dean falls back onto the bed, a little stunned, but starts to laugh and cheer, clapping his hands in the air like a seal while Hunter breathes heavily, heart crashing turbulently in his chest.

"That's it!" he says, whipping back up into a seated position. "C'mon, I know you've got it in you!"

Hunter doesn't want to speak anymore — it clearly doesn't work with Dean Ambrose. There's no words that could get through his skull, no sentence that could make him learn that what he's doing is a _very bad_ idea, that he does _not_ want to get on his boss' bad side. No, that's not what he'll do, Hunter's past that, the only thing that seemed to work was physicality, violence, dominance.

He punches Dean again, making sure his other hand holds onto the collar of Dean's shirt to keep him from falling back. There's a weak attempt to protect himself, a hand goes up, but it doesn't intercept Hunter's rage, probably just an instinct.

Hunter pulls him back, and they tumble onto the floor together. He straddles Dean, pinning one arm to his side underneath Hunter's thigh, and holding the other up above his head, immobilizing him. He can't think straight — can't think ahead — all that's in his mind is to _destroy_ Dean Ambrose, do what he couldn't earlier, not with referees surrounding him and people screaming for him to stop.

Dean smiled, toothy grin, his face only reddening a bit. He doesn't have to say anything, his body doesn't resist even a little. Hunter doesn't know why he came to his hotel room in the first place. He doesn't care.

His left hand grips Dean by the neck, forefinger and thumb pressing on either side of base of his jaw, and his right hand lets go of Dean's arm, a bit slower than any other movement, watching for a sign of his retaliation. There's nothing, unbelievably, but maybe Hunter should've expected this. He would never understand Ambrose.

"C'mooon," Dean says, and Hunter's mind is filled with white noise.

Blood doesn't come out quite as fast as people think, there's a pause from the skin breaking and the blood spilling, pretty inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but definitely still a detail. So, after the first impact, nothing will come out. Second, third, things start to get red, swell, but it takes a well placed fourth or fifth for the blood to speckle knuckles and stain skin. Hunter doesn't keep count, but it takes until he finds his pace for him to realise just how much _blood_ was pouring out of Dean's nose.

There was splatter, he noticed the little red dots on his wrist, and he couldn't be sure if it was from the impact of flesh on flesh or the motion of his arm reeling back. Dean's mouth was cut, too, his teeth chipping on skin, red mottling the inside of his mouth as he laughed.

 _Laughed_. He was _laughing_. Hunter felt a snarl be ripped out of his throat, readjusted his grip, and punched again, not caring where his fists were landing. He thought he heard a crack, he thought he saw a tooth get knocked loose, he thought he felt Dean's eye socket sink a little deeper into his skull.

Dean's laughter disappeared; a low groan came out instead, accompanying a weak cough, sending blood and spit bubbling up.

Hunter paused to inspect his handiwork. He didn't get to do this in the ring, and it had been a while since he was last in-ring. Refs would pull him off, his mind would be too aware of the screaming crowd, the children at home. Matches weren't meant to blow off steam, they were meant to produce endings, it wouldn't do the business good if Hunter lost it and rearranged his opponent's face. He could win anyway, with less grim tactics.

It was a thing of beauty. Almost the entirety of the right hand side of Dean's face was swelling up, a pretty little goose egg attempting to hide the broken blood vessels in his eye. His nose was definitely broken, maybe a little crooked, but it was hard to tell through all the blood, bright red smeared across his cheekbone, draining down his face, staining his blonde stubble an uneasy pink. Dean coughed again, more blood and spit flowing out, down his chin and neck and onto Hunter's hand, still tight around his neck. There was a sick wet sound to Dean's ragged breathing, viscous fluids filling his throat. It made Hunter's heart swell.

Another cough, and Hunter let go of Dean's throat, suddenly remembering safety protocols for — well, for brutal injuries. Sit up and lean forward, pinch the nose lightly, apply ice, keep the mouth open, do anything and everything to minimize the damage. Quick recoveries to bad judgments.

Before Hunter can even panic about what he's done, Dean laughs again, guttural, soggy, like his lungs were filled with blood instead of air. The sound sends chills down Hunter's spine.

"Thasit?" Dean asks, slurring his words, punch drunk. "You done 'lready, man? Y'don' look done."

His one free hand, previously held above his head, moves down, grabs Hunter's knee, jolting his attention downwards. There's another drenched laugh when he notices his dick, hard, straining against the crotch of his pants. He hadn't even noticed, thought the heat shooting through him was adrenaline, the pounding in his heart a reaction to Dean's new facial features.

Quickly, he gets up, off of Dean, his chest heaving. This was going downhill — no, it was already going downhill the moment he let Dean in, now it was at rock bottom, and he was just digging a hole to go even lower. He has to — to let Dean out, make him leave, make phone calls, do _something_ to fix this.

"Looks like," Dean starts, trying to move, but clearly dizzy. "y'can get it up, after all."

Hunter realises that he has two options. Of course there are more, an endless amount of things he could do, but they all boil down to two different routes. He could play clean-up and call an ambulance, or he could give up on caring even a little.

He doesn't think too hard about it.

Dean is _elated_ at Hunter's huge hand wrapping itself around his neck again, laughing and coughing and sending up more blood and spit. His teeth were pink, stained with blood from various sources, his tongue a dark shiny red. Hunter pulls Dean up to a seated position, barely even noticing the pool of blood left behind on the carpet, definitely a couple extra hundred dollars worth of cleaning fees. Dean's still dizzy, woozy, and with gravity helping, the blood pours down his face even faster, until he's huffing and puffing just to get even air in him, wetness pooling in his lap.

"Get on your fucking knees," Hunter says, watching Dean's one good eye light up. What a fucking mess.

He's a little slow to respond, clearly shaken up, but Hunter doesn't have time to wait, doesn't want to _give_ Dean time to wait, so he grabs a fistful of Dean's hair and jerks him up, onto his knees. He winces in pain, coughs again, having a hard time clearing his throat, his motions sluggish. Hunter thinks he can see a strain in Dean's pants too, but decides that he doesn't care enough to make sure.

Dean looks up, still gasping in air, his eyes hooded and mouth hanging open. " 'S good?" he asks, kind of smiling, kind of grimacing.

"Ambrose, shut the fuck up," Hunter snaps, letting go of Dean and going to adjust his cock, angrily throbbing in his sweatpants. Now that he's focusing on it, Hunter is realising just how _badly_ he wants to get off, to the point where the ache in his knuckles is completely overshadowed by the ache in his dick.

Hunter thought he was pretty well cut, nothing to scoff at, and he was pretty proud of it. But, it was rare nowadays that Hunter had someone new to fuck, he'd already recruited all the people he needed, so he never really got to experience the look on someone's face when he pulled it out. But now Dean was here, and Dean was new, and Dean was open mouthed and wide eyed.

"Open wide," Hunter chuckles darkly, pulling Dean's head back and sliding his cock into Dean's wet mouth.

He already used to think that Dean produced just a little too much spit, like he was always holding water in his mouth, but now, with all the added blood, it was slicker than anything Hunter could've fathomed. Dean took him down easily, his good eye fluttering closed, and Hunter let out a low curse at the soppy heat covering his cock.

Since Dean had been coughing so much earlier, Hunter went a little easy on him at first, not pushing his head in deep, until Dean's nose was pressed against his hips. He didn't want to _actually_ choke him, but it was fucking hard, all he wanted to do was ruin the rest of Dean, until there wasn't even a chance he could show up on TV next week.

Dean kept his hands in his lap, apparently knowing his place in all this. Hunter's hand was tangled in Dean's hair, tight, guiding him slowly back and forth, pleased at the complete lack of resistance. He pushes a little deeper, gives a little buck of his hips, and Dean's eye flies open, his throat suddenly closing while he coughs, gagging on Hunter's dick.

The feeling is so unique, and the sight of Dean's franticness is so good, Hunter forces Dean's head to stay still, watching him gag and feel his throat panic around his cock. His hands fly up from his lap, grab ahold of Hunter's sweatpants, curling into tight fists. Hunter thinks he sees more blood run out of Dean's nose, or maybe it was a mix of blood and snot, and he laughs.

"Don't you dare throw up on my cock," he orders, still chuckling, and still not giving a shit. Dean can't respond, so he doesn't.

Hunter pulls out almost all the way, watching all the drool spill out of Dean's throat, loving the sight of spit and blood mixing on his dick. He'd never gone this far with anyone, even Seth, who craved any sort of attention, he never really wanted to bleed for Hunter, so he never got to know how nice it felt to experience a blowjob with a side of blood. It was just a little thicker, the smell was overbearing, but the heat was unbeatable, and the sight of it was absolutely gorgeous.

Without warning, he thrusts all the way back into Dean's throat, feeling every muscle in Dean's body tense out of panic, and doesn't let up. He fucks his mouth, uses both hands to make sure he got the depth and speed he wanted. Maybe Dean fought back, he wasn't sure, he didn't really care. Dean was little more than a fleshlight right now, Hunter just wanted to fuck him until he broke.

His cock was throbbing, pulsing, shaking and aching to come, he could feel his hips thrusting forward as he pulled Dean's head in, he could hear Dean's garbled moans, feel his throat contract and tighten, _knew_ he was pushing Dean's gag reflex to the limit, but he just did not fucking care. Hunter's mouth popped open, freely letting out a moan, focusing all of his attention to his engorged cock.

Right at the edge, Hunter held Dean's head steady against his hips, and groaned a low curse as he came, a blistering release deep into his mouth.

There were more coughs in protest, Dean's body fighting against the abuse tooth and nail. Hunter pulls out again, slower this time, feel the after shocks making his cock twitch on Dean's tongue. He'd done a good job to make sure no teeth scraped against him — at least there was that.

"Don't swallow yet," Hunter says, finally withdrawing his dick. He crouched down, closer to Dean's kneeling height, grabbing his jaw by the hand. "I wanna see."

Dean's chest heaved like a laugh, and he stuck out his tongue. Hunter's glossy white come was still there, sure enough, intermingling with a lake of drool, a stark contrast against the streaks of bright red blood. The rest of him was just as bad a mess, with blood coating his entire chin, snot running down his nose, streams of tears marking his cheeks, his right almost completely swollen shut. Hunter almost wanted to take a photo, to savour the moment.

" 'Kay," Hunter grins, shutting Dean's mouth and standing back up, shoving his dick back into his pants. "Enjoy the taste."

Dean makes a show of swallowing it all, clearly difficult with all the shit clogging up his airways. When it's all down, he smiles, a wide grin, teeth still stained. If Hunter wasn't already in his post-orgasm cooldown, he'd want to punch him again.

"Done yet?" he asks, feeling a kind of embarrassed professionalism slip into his voice. He certainly hadn't expected his night to go this way, a little whisper of regret starting to reverberate in his head. But Dean was still smiling on his knees, which made it incredibly hard to ignore or forget. "Clean yourself up so you don't bleed all the way down the hall and get outta here."

Dean's smile twists into something different, a little more mocking and a lot more annoying. "Wait, that's it?" His voice is gravelly, sore, his throat begging for comfort and not finding it. "You're not gonna, like, treat me?"

Hunter takes a long look at him, at the tension in Dean's pants, even more desperate than his own had been. He crosses his arms, keeping his face stony, and while Dean doesn't squirm, his smile does drop a little.

"I let you keep your nose in the middle of your face," he says, the same voice and intonation a teacher would use on a misbehaving child asking for extra sweets. "That's more than enough of a treat for you."

He punctuates his sentence by bringing the heel of his foot up and grinding it into Dean's clothed cock. He buckles forward, letting out a sound as if he'd been punched in the gut. Hunter laughs, stepping back, watching Dean try desperately to not palm himself.

He decides to be kind for a little, for once. He pads into the bathroom, grabs a cup and fills it with water, and takes a small hand towel while he's at it. Dean's still on his knees, but his thighs are held together tight, a hand covering his mouth, the other balled up in a fist on the carpet. When he looks up at Hunter, Hunter can see the glossiness in Dean's good eye, the other almost entirely closed, the swelling at its peak. It really is such a beautiful sight, Hunter admires, what a shame that it's squandered on such a hideous face.

Dean takes the cup gingerly from Hunter's hand and drinks it down quickly, then uses the towel to wipe only a miniscule amount of blood off his face. A lot of it had coagulated by now, thick and glossy, or else it had dried and wouldn't come off so easily. Hunter thought he looked worse like this, with thick bits of blood stuck to his cheeks, but didn't offer any suggestions. He was doing more than enough by giving him the water.

"You're good now, right?" Hunter asks, hooking his fingers in the back of Dean's collar and yanking him up to his feet. Unsteady, Dean wobbles, as if he were to fall over. He manages to stay standing without help, not that Hunter had planned on contributing any. "Now get out of here, and don't let me hear about this later."

Dean bobs his head up and down, small, loose movements that Hunter guesses was supposed to be a nod. He stumbles over to the door as Hunter watches, arms crossed again, standing by the edge of the bed.

Next to the door, Dean catches a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror, and pauses. He laughs, but by this point, it sounds much less like a laugh and more like a rasp, an abrasive cough. "I look like hell," he says, tenderly pressing a hand against his swollen cheek. His speech sounds better, a little less murky. "What am I gunna do 'bout this?"

Hunter shrugs. "I don't know. I've heard our makeup artists are pretty good."

Another painful laugh, Hunter almost feels bad. Not really. Dean shuffles out the door, still holding the towel to his face, and closes it behind him with a loud click. Hunter counts to ten, tightening his fists and taking a deep breath.

So... That was a bad idea.

Not one bit of that was a good idea. He should've — he shouldn't have even let him into the goddamn hotel room. There was blood still on the floor, blood on his hands and arms, and the incoming shitstorm of however much Dean's medical bills would be loomed over Hunter's head. Phone calls from everyone who had his number, everyone who had counted on Dean showing up on TV and not looking like he got hit by a truck.

He goes to sit on the bed and lets out the air he'd been holding in. He'd have to manage, figure something out, fix his mistakes, make a quick recovery.

Hunter's knuckles were hurting again. Maybe he should've taped up his wrists.


End file.
